


tied and true

by slyther_ing



Series: pathways to you [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hogwarts, Light Angst, M/M, Marcus will be happy at the end, Pining, Quidditch, probably, this literally has gotten away from me, this was supposed to be 2k long, welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: There are two routes of action.Three, if he were really desperate, but Marcus doesn’t think anyone in history has ever successfully dissolved a soulmate thread before without dire consequences and he’s not willing to die over Oliver fucking Wood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the soulmate au was inevitable, tbh

Marcus turns seventeen on a Monday.

He turns seventeen and he wakes up and he doesn’t think much of it, until he trudges down to breakfast and his mother has a look of disappointment in her eyes when he doesn’t mention any change as she hands him a scattered array of letters.

There’s no thread wound around his wrist yet.

So his soulmate isn’t close.  

He’s not sure why his mother is so surprised. All there is outside is a long, large, plain of white snow, with a couple bare trees dotting the perimeter of their grounds. It’d probably be _more_ worrying if his soulmate was within the fifteen kilometer perimeter.

All he does that day is play Quidditch in the snowdrift until he can’t feel his face, and sit through the same stifling dinner that he’s been subjected to all break.

Marcus shoves aside the books he’s supposed to read when he’s in his room, and blinks up at the dark ceiling. He wonders whether his soulmate is already seventeen, if she’s going to even make it up to his shoulder, wonders if he already thinks Marcus is shit at magic. He wonders whether he’s going to be one of those folks who never gets a soulmate. He’s not quite sure he’ll be happy with that.

He wonders whether his soulmate likes quidditch.

***

He arrives back to Hogwarts with game plans to finish out his final year and his broomstick in tow, and _statistically_ , his soulmate should be at Hogwarts. The chances are high, right? Given how small the Wizarding population is, it’d make sense for him to finally find his other _half._

Marcus isn’t wrong. The moment people start streaming into the castle, a red loop circles its way around his wrist, striking against his skin. He tries to grasp it, but there’s nothing to touch – just the red thread there, and that fucks with his brain horrendously. Something that _looks_ tangible should _be_ tangible.

“What’s up, mate?” Baddock calls over, noticing how Marcus hasn’t threatened Bole out of the bathroom yet.

“Nothing,” Marcus grunts, because he’s not about to share with his mates – Merlin knows, soulmate threads are touchy enough in Slytherin. He’s not going to spread the information without knowing who’s at the other end.

And so here’s where it gets messy.

Marcus realizes it’s a flawed system, this whole soulmate thing, because he doesn’t actually find out until dinner, the first night back, and the red string stretches before his very eyes to where Oliver Wood is laughing with a crew of Weasleys around him. The string has an end. And here he had been hoping for an easy way out.

Marcus’ fork clatters to the table.

“You alright, mate?” Bole mumbles through a mouthful of food.

Wood continues chattering, it seems, and Marcus looks, keeps looking for a sign that _his_ world has just been rocked and overturned. But everything remains calm and pleasant over at the Gryffindor table, albeit buzzing with the kind of excitement that has always gotten on his nerves.

Marcus swallows, glances at Wood, then back to his wrist and -

Fuck.

***

There are two routes of action. Three, if he were to be really desperate, but Marcus doesn’t think anyone in history has ever successfully dissolved a soulmate thread before without dire consequences and he’s not willing to die over Oliver bloody Wood.

So. Two options.

One: Tell Wood. Somehow, with only Marcus being able to see the string. Tell him with their history of barbs and insults and targeted bludgers - “Hey Wood, guess we’re meant to be.” Attempt a wink. Probably get his teeth knocked out.

Marcus buries his face into his pillow.

Granted, that might allow his teeth to be grown back organized and neat and pretty. His parents would be pleased.

Right. _Right_ , his parents. He should deal with that soon. They were hoping for something nice and politically helpful, maybe with the Greengrasses. But Marcus had known from the first moment he’d seen blonde little Daphne Greengrass scramble far away from a broom that _that_ was always bound for disappointment.

Option Two would involve carrying on as normal, meaning ignoring the string and pretending he’s none the wiser. It’s the easier option, because as much as Marcus likes conflict, he likes to be on the winning side and in this situation, there really are no winners. No, Option Two seems like a momentary peace, means he won’t have to face the reality of the universe somehow deciding that he’s a perfect fit with a fucking Gryffindor pretty boy.

He can carry on with baiting Wood with quidditch and everything else that he usually takes pleasure in. Pushing Wood’s buttons. Sending bludgers his way and practicing the suppression of his conscience.

The downside to Option Two is that once Wood turns seventeen, the jig is up. And knowing Gryffindors and their ilk, _that_ confrontation won’t be pretty. Neither of Wood’s parents are Muggles. He knows how soulmate strings work, knows when you see them, will know Marcus has been neglecting it for a year.

But that’s a year down the line. By then, he’ll be out of Hogwarts and hopefully able to keep far enough away from Oliver Wood that by the time anything does get found out, it’ll be too late.

It’s not foolproof, but Marcus is veering a little into panic.

The next day, Marcus watches Wood smooth the hair out of his eyes while grimacing at his scroll of parchment from across the Great Hall, and decides that Fate can go take a fucking seat and live with being disappointed.

The thing about soulmates is that you technically don’t _have_ to do anything about it. Marcus would know - his mother had ignored hers and instead married a man eight years her senior, for the money and the social standing and then they’d had him and - well.

Only she knows who the other end is attached to, and her expression whenever he’d dared to ask had been enough of an answer.

Someone not _proper_. Someone not worth following Fate for.

A soulmate string doesn’t ensure falling madly, madly in love, and doesn’t ensure happy endings. Marcus knows that, but he thinks deep down he’d probably hoped.

***

The first time Wood talks to him after Marcus _knows_ is during a Captain’s meeting, when they’re arguing over schedules for the rest of the semester and whether or not Potter should still be allowed to play for Gryffindor.

“What with him being a _threat_ and all,” Marcus jeers, as the Hufflepuff Captain, Lorraine, hangs around awkwardly in the background.

“We’ve been over this, Flint,” Wood tries, but Marcus forges ahead.

“Weren’t there rules put in place for this? Kind of unlike you to use fear of a seeker to your advantage, Wood.”

It’s a three-versus-one argument, because Marcus knows that Stratton, the Ravenclaw Captain, has her own reservations about the whole thing, what being in the line-up to play against Gryffindor soon, and Huffs have been on edge since one of their own had gotten petrified. So really, Wood’s fighting for his own.

The string around his wrist twinges, and Marcus feels a slight sting as Wood’s face furrows with anger. He resists the urge to grip the place of pain. He’d forgotten about this part.

“You’re talking out of your arse and you know it.” Wood’s eyes narrow and his mouth straightens into a flat line. The skin of Marcus’ wrist continues prickling.

Damn, if this is going to be a constant occurrence - and it will, given their _relationship_ \- Marcus might have to rethink his plan for the next year. He doesn’t need this - the emotional connection to someone he’s who he can count the number of positive interactions with on one hand.

Stratton sighs, obviously fed up with their posturing. “Screw it, Flint. We can let Wood have his Wonder Boy.”

The stinging around his wrist doesn’t fade but Marcus watches as Wood nods and leaves the room. The feeling only disappears hours later, when Marcus is struggling through an essay and realizes that he can put his wrist down without hissing.

There’s a commotion in the dorm that night, when Higgs storms in and sends hexes towards Bletchley and Baddock in one go. Miles dodges with a yell, and Marcus puts down his quill, thoroughly giving up on doing anything of purpose for the night.

“What’s got your wand in a knot?” Miles hisses, rubbing at the singed skin of his arm.

Warrington appears in the doorway right then, snickering, eyes aglint with malice. “Pity, Higgs. And here we were all betting on one of the Selwyn twins. What a _pity._ ”

Higgs brandishes his wand amidst the heckling from the rest of the seventh years, mouth curled up in a snarl and for someone so pretty, Marcus can see a hint of deranged in there as well. “Shut it, or you won’t wake up tomorrow morning.”

Ah. Right. Terence’s birthday.

Warrington and Bletchley retreat back to their own rooms, and Marcus watches Terence stalk into the bathroom. They’re not on the best of terms, because of Malfoy and Quidditch and that whole mess early in the year, but he’s still curious. And maybe a little apologetic, being old friends, but Higgs would just use that as a weapon against him.

He corners Terence when they’re switching in the bathroom, and when he closes the door on the rest of the assholes in the dorm, Terence looks at him with both intense dislike and resignation.

“So?”

Higgs runs the tap and stares at the water. “What? No of-age congratulations?”

He pauses for a moment before saying, “This is your fault.”

Marcus bristles. “ _My_ fault?”

“Yeah - letting him hang around the team last year.”

Marcus laughs as Terence continues glaring at him. “What - Pucey? Meek little Adrian Pucey?”

Terence flings another jinx towards him but Marcus has known him long enough to know how to dodge his occasional lash outs. “The _fuck_ am I supposed to do with that, Flint?”

Marcus pauses, knowing the Higgs are still conservative to all hell, knows that Terence has a position in the Wizengamot to claw his way up to after they graduate, knows that having ties to a Pucey, a neutral and notoriously unbiased family, is no use at all. “Well.”

Terence groans. “Merlin.”

“It could be worse,” Marcus finds himself sharing, “Least he’s a Slytherin.”

“We all know he should’ve been a Puff,” Higgs mutters, before pausing mid vigorous hand scrubbing. “Wait - you.”

Marcus makes to leave the bathroom, but Higgs is faster and collapses the door before Marcus’s hand reaches for the handle.

Terence looks like the cat that caught the cream, lips quirked up in a smirk. “Your birthday passed already. Who’s your soulmate, Flint?”

Marcus blanches, curses the fact that he’s left his wand by his bedside, a horrible habit he’s never shaken. “None of your fucking business.”

“Not a Slytherin,” Terence presses on, “Ravenclaw wouldn’t be bad, granted they’re not stuck up bores like Clearwater. Could it be?”

Higgs is mocking him, and he knows it, but he can never help rising to the bait. “What’re you going to do about your clingy little admirer, Higgs?”

“Better than any lousy Gryffindor,” Terence says flatly, “Who is it? Johnson? A Weasley? No, I doubt the world would be that cruel to even your ugly mug.”

He taps his chin mock-thoughtfully, before narrowing his eyes as if the pieces have all fallen together, and Marcus has never hated Terence more than this very moment, for the Higgs’ innate skill in Divination, for Terence’s stupid, creepy sixth sense.

“It couldn’t possibly be Wood, could it?”

Marcus groans, grits his teeth, before grabbing the collar of Terence’s shirt and attempting to shake him scared.

Higgs doesn’t even flinch, merely smirks as his hypothesis lands squarely on target. “Well, look at that. And he doesn’t know yet?”

“Listen,” Marcus hisses, panic and anger twist-turning in his chest, “You tell anyone, and I’ll make sure Pucey hears about _yours_ and how you’re oh-so-excited about your future together.”

Higgs’ face changes from smug to irritated within a split second, and he releases himself from Marcus’ grasp forcefully. “Fine. You keep your mouth shut, I’ll keep mine. Just - deal with Warrington alongside, would you?”

Marcus nods, before letting Terence exit the bathroom first, hears him fending off the nosiness of their dorm-mates. The red thread looks like it’s curled tighter around his wrist, but he’s pretty sure it’s just his mind playing tricks.

He splashes his face with cold water, and doesn’t think about the grim, angry line of Wood’s mouth from the afternoon.

***

Marcus puts Warrington on bludger duty for the next month, along with a pointed threat. He owes Higgs that much.

***

They’re not going to win this year. Nobody will, but that doesn’t stop Marcus from seething, seething over the fact that his last year, likely last victory on a quidditch pitch, has been snatched right out of his hands by some mess of a Chamber and old Salazar’s hopped up schemes.

The only small silver lining is seeing the same agitation reflected in Wood for the last few months that they’ve been escorted to and fro from class to dorm and dorm to Great Hall. The thread around his wrist has gotten tighter, or Marcus feels it more, anyways. A slight pressure constantly pulling at his wrist, as if the magic behind it is urging him to get a move on, to do something about it.

Marcus tries harder to ignore it.

He gets completely fed up one night, decides to take the well known route out of the dungeons and out onto the grounds. He’s almost surprised the professors haven’t put patrols around it, but then again, Slytherin is far from being the house at risk.

It’s brisk and cold, as late March usually is, and Marcus relishes the freedom of not moving in a mass, hovers low on his broom over the pitch and practices rolls and dives for a good half an hour before his peace is ruined by a figure moving in the shadows of the castle.

“Fuck,” Marcus grunts, before landing quickly. It’s too late when he recognizes the familiar tugging sensation by his wrist and the nervous face of Oliver Wood appears, looking extremely guilty at getting caught out on the grounds after dark.

“Um,” Wood says, eloquently.

“Hi,” Marcus says, like an idiot.

Wood’s hand goes up to awkwardly scratch his nose, and Marcus can’t tear his gaze away from the red line looped easily around Wood’s wrist. A direct path from him to Marcus. The thread spirals, twists, and thickens before his very eyes. Marcus jerks his wrist abruptly, but he knows the magic doesn’t work that way.

It’s the first time he’s been so hyper-sensitive to the way they’re now connected. The first time, Marcus thinks, they’ve ever been alone together. And Wood, bless his heart, remains oblivious.

“Alright, look - we’re obviously out here for the same reasons,” Wood sighs, hands held up defensively, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Marcus snorts, unable to help himself. “Really? How do I know you’re not gonna run back to McGonagall right after?”

Wood’s grin is far too nonchalant for the situation. “Because you’ll tell on me, too.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow - Wood’s got a point, and they _are_ both in the same boat. And he would; there’s no reason why Marcus wouldn’t spill to Snape either, own consequences be damned.

He steps to the side to let Wood pass. The thread lengthens as Wood walks by. “Fine. Go on, then.”

Wood turns to glance over his shoulder, and with a rare, raw moment, says “Nice flying” before taking off and veering out of sight. The insinuation is there - _you’re good, but I would beat you._ Marcus almost laughs out loud at that. Everything - everything is always going to be a competition. He might almost miss that, alongside the game.

It’s the third time they run into each other that Marcus starts getting agitated. And intrigued. They always show up at the same time, Friday or Saturday nights when everyone else is off snogging in abandoned corridors, or sneaking in butterbeer, or playing exploding snap, and Marcus thinks that Wood loves quidditch, sure. Is obsessed with it, but even he must take a break _sometime_.

He doesn’t, apparently. Every time Marcus lands, he watches the thread around his wrist glow brighter, get thicker and then Wood’s slipping out from a side door of the castle.

He’s surprised no one has caught them yet.

It’s obvious what Wood’s doing - making up for his losses, for next year. Marcus can see it in the set of his brow, the determination, the stupid Gryffindor whole-heartedness of throwing yourself into something and expecting it to catch you.

They exchange cursory greetings, and complaints here and there about the lack of action, the lack of competition, the lack of anything to _do_ . Maybe they’re a bit selfish. Marcus doesn’t care - it’s not in his character to be anything but. Wood offers to practice together, a Keeper for a Chaser, but Marcus turns him down. He’s not sure he wants to spend more time with his _soulmate_ (Merlin, fucking - damn) than necessary, especially since he’s not planning an outcome.

Marcus turns back and watches the fifth time they run into each other, _really_ watches. Notices that Wood does low loops and twirls that no Keeper ever gets to execute and there’s something almost graceful about it. Wood loves quidditch, no doubt, but he loves quidditch more than he does winning. And that’s something Marcus knows intimately - playing as if both nothing and everything is on the line.

It’s the eighth time - and Marcus thinks the professors _mus_ t know by now - the eighth time when Wood gives him more than just a cursory nod. He’d stopped asking Marcus if he wants to practice together, knows the answer he’s going to get before he even opens his mouth.

Instead, he watches Marcus dismount, and asks with the casualness of locker room banter, “You gonna keep going?”

Marcus pauses. “Keep going with what?”

“This,” Wood gestures, “Playing.”

“Who knows,” Marcus says, oddly honest without his Slytherin tie and cloak. The words surprise him and maybe Wood too, because his companion’s face shifts as if he was expecting an insult. They’re capable of having civil conversation, just not about anything like this. “What are the chances?”

Wood stares out at the darkened pitch with a set jaw. “You up your own chances.”

At that, Marcus grins. “Don’t need to tell me that.”

“Fairly,” Wood retorts, but there’s no bite to his words. “Really? You haven’t thought of it? Chasers - higher chances.”

“What about you?” Marcus asks instead, sidestepping the possibility of him being too honest. That of course he’s _thought_ about it, but the reality - the reality is that he’s the only son. Flints go into the Ministry. Flints play the same pureblood power game generation after generation. They don’t run off and play professional quidditch, let alone bother with daydreaming that they can even get into the leagues.

“Of course,” Wood says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit, and Marcus supposes it probably is, given his reputation, “It’s more about what happens if I can’t.”

At that, Marcus lets himself look - really look - at Oliver Wood. Because he’s surprised, maybe, because he’s curious, because there’s this pull in his chest at the idea of Wood _not_ playing quidditch anymore. Even in his bitterest moments towards Wood, stinging from a loss, he’d only ever been able to see him on a broom after Hogwarts. Anything else seemed like a tip in the balance.

Wood’s face is grim, anxious. Marcus recognizes the expression. He wonders if Wood’s even thinking about soulmates, amidst all this.

“Keeper is,” Marcus tries, words fumbling like they always seem to, “Harder.”

Wood makes a sound in agreement. Then he looks at Marcus straight on and Marcus realizes that even after so many years across from each other on the pitch, he doesn’t know what color Wood’s eyes are.

“You should do it,” Wood says, as if they give each other encouragement every day, as if this isn’t something out of the blue, as if they haven’t spent the last six years trying to tear each other down, “Try out. After you graduate.”

Marcus stares at him.

Wood stares back.

Marcus breaks first, because the thread between them has started twisting. He jerks his wrist and Wood’s gaze falters, darting to the sudden movement.

“Why’re you asking?” Marcus blurts, before Wood can start putting two and two together.

Wood shrugs. “Dunno. Just thought - well, just wondered whether I’d play against you again.”

“Why does it matter?”

Wood laughs, almost self-consciously, except Marcus doesn’t think he’s ever known him to be ashamed of anything he does. “You’re the only one who gets it, y’know? Quidditch.”

And well - it strikes so close to true that Marcus doesn’t know what to say.

Wood shrugs again, then turns to straddle his broom. He takes off without a backwards glance, leaving Marcus to watch the regular series of dives and loops. He thinks he spends more time watching than anything these days.

Marcus had gone to sleep on his seventeenth birthday with anticipation sparking in his chest, an excitement, a worry of who his soulmate would be, whether they’d be able to make it work. And then he’d found Wood. No, and then Wood had appeared and that - that was that.

Wasn’t it?

The thread lengthens, spreads like silk, bright red against the dark night sky as Wood flies farther and farther, and Marcus almost regrets turning away.

***

The next day, he notes that Wood’s eyes are brown.

***

He packs his trunk at the end of the year, boards the train without running into Wood again at the pitch. He’d stopped sneaking out, too shaken by the last conversation they’d had. Shaken by how with a few extra minutes, a yearning had started growing in his chest. The urge, the wanting of _more_ was far too dangerous. Far too tempting for Marcus to even bait.

So Marcus went back to his plan of action - avoid, compartmentalize, disregard. He’d blundered through all the written parts of his NEWTS, looked on as Potter managed to save the day and listened to Malfoy’s whining, and when he’d left the Slytherin common room, he hadn’t felt anything but relief. Over and done with - both the years of frustration in class and the limbo of avoiding his soulmate.

The thing with plans, however, is that they rarely turn out the way he wants them to.

His father’s cold silence is something he’s far from unfamiliar with, but it’s crushing this time around. The Ministry owl is pecking at the leftover crumbs from breakfast. Their house elf is too frightened to move to clean up the mess.

Marcus fiddles with his knife. His NEWT scores rest opened on the table, a silent Howler.

“Marcus,” his father says, “ _Explain._ ”

“I’m stupid?” Marcus tries. His father’s nostrils flare.

His mother huffs. “That is not true-”

“Well, I can’t write for shit-”

“Language,” Claudius Flint says, and Marcus shuts up. He’d think for an old man that curses as much as his father does, he’d allow his son to swear as well. “Your practical magic is fine. Your OWLs, while lacking, were not this horrible. Did you study?”

No.

“Yes,” Marcus attempts to smile sweetly. His father remains unamused.

“Clearly not. Why?”

His mother looks at him expectantly. The only reasons he has are: one, to avoid the Ministry like the plague, and two, because he was so preoccupied by the identity of his fucking soulmate that he’d stopped caring.

“Just - didn’t.” He mumbles, and the piercing stare his father sends his way is enough to make him look to their house elf for help. Floppy only wrings his old hands, and sidles out towards the kitchen. Marcus sighs.

“You’ll be going back then,” Claudius says, standing up  with an air of finality, “Until you get the grades required for a proper position in the Ministry.”

Marcus splutters, because - no. _No._ He can’t do that, can’t last another year listening to droning lectures and trying to make sense of the swimming letters in front of him and dragging himself through essays, and certainly not another year of being - oh Lord, being in the _same damn classes_ as Oliver Wood.

His mother looks equally appalled. “Dear, I’m sure his practical abilities are enough-”

“No,” his father says coolly, “He’s returning to Hogwarts. And if you don’t succeed this time around, Marcus - we’ll discuss your inheritance.”

Marcus stares in disbelief as his father turns his back on the table, heading towards his study. He’d thrown away his NEWTs - for this. For another year of being stuck in that stupid castle, trying to raise his stupid grades. For an ultimatum. And Wood.

Fuck, _Wood_. He’s going to know.

He’s going to know.

Marcus’ chest constricts, and his mother is saying something but he can’t hear what she’s trying to console him with. Instead, he shoves his chair back with a loud screech, and races to his room, wand already out by the time he slams the door shut.

He’s not thinking when he does it, or else he wouldn’t have tried in the first place. Marcus has heard enough stories, enough warnings, and yet - he says a breathless _diffindo_ and moves his wand over the stretch of his soulmate thread, hoping all the same.

He regrets it immediately, because a sharp pain roots itself in his chest, piercing and cold, and Marcus’ knees buckle. The pain spreads throughout his body, centers at his wrist and Marcus bites his bottom lip to try to prevent his parents from hearing. He’s taken bludgers to the ribs and skulls before but _Merlin_.

He remains collapsed on the floor until the pain fades to a dull throb, almost in tune with his pulse. When he catches his breath, he opens his eyes and stares at his quidditch robes, hung up messily on his bed post.

When he dares to look, the thread remains, perfectly intact.


	2. Chapter 2

His father, the bastard, takes away his broom, instructs him to stay in his room and study and even his mother’s wheedling only earns him an hour of fresh air every day. By the time summer comes to an end, Marcus is almost glad to be returning to Hogwarts. 

Almost, but not quite.

Snape’s informed him that he still has his captain’s position “despite his previous lackluster performance” and Marcus wonders if his mother had at least pulled a few strings, to maintain the Flint reputation. His returning for an eighth year is already a blot on their public image.

It’s all about the image, really, so Marcus makes himself harder, rougher, buzzing his hair short. His mother looks at him and frowns, but he knows it’s for the best, once he returns. No first years will bother trying to look up to him. No seventh years will dare say a word. 

Warrington and Montague bite back their sneers when he shoves them both roughly into a compartment on the train, nodding along sullenly as he makes sure that his captaincy won’t be challenged. Pucey looks intrigued. Marcus wonders if Terence ever talked to him, but knowing Higgs, the likelihood of  _ that _ is less than zero. 

He skips the welcome back feast in favor of claiming the best bed in the seventh year dorm. 

Terence had had it last year, the little  _ shit _ .

***

When Marcus slides into Transfiguration late the next day, Wood turns the goblet he’d been given into a giant pelican. 

Amidst the shrieks of their surrounding classmates as the pelican squawks and attempts to overturn three desks, as McGonagall gets bombarded with a faceful of feathers mid-spell, Oliver Wood stares across the room in disbelief. 

“Mr. Wood,” McGonagall snaps, “The assignment is to transfigure a sparrow _. _ Would you mind explaining why someone with your extreme dedication has caused such a ruckus?”

Wood gapes, face pale, and Marcus is relieved that at least Wood has enough sense to not blurt out what he’s just realized to the whole class. 

“S-sorry, Professor,” Wood says, and seemingly unable to find a proper excuse, proceeds to shut himself up.

Marcus leaves class as quickly as he can, but he should’ve known diversionary tactics are nothing for a Gryffindor with blinded focus, because callused fingers close around his wrist -  _ that  _ wrist - and drags him with enough force into a side alcove. 

“You -” Wood stumbles, mouth opening and closing before saying again, this time with two parts less disbelief and overarching resignation, “You.”

“Me,” Marcus says coolly, “Surprise.”

Wood’s cheeks turn pink, brows furrowed, and the sharp slash of his mouth makes some weird, guilty creature rise up in Marcus’ chest. He makes to tug his arm out of Wood’s grasp, but the bastard’s grip hasn’t lessened. 

“You’ve  _ known _ ,” Wood accuses him, “All those - on the pitch - why didn’t you  _ say _ anything?” 

It’s Marcus’ turn to look at him in disbelief. “Would you have believed me?”

That finally makes Wood’s stupid, shocked mouth snap shut. He releases Marcus’ wrist and there’s a fizzling sensation, like bubbles popping on his skin, at the sudden removal of Wood’s touch. 

He makes sure nobody worth noting is around before making to step back out into the corridor. 

“Wait,” Wood says, and Marcus curses his body for actually listening, “What do we do now?”

“We?” Marcus laughs, and it’s nasty, the way it comes out, “There’s no ‘we’, Wood. This doesn’t change a thing.”

“But-”

Marcus steps out into the flow of people streaming in and out of the stone hallway, doesn’t turn back to the sound of Wood’s voice, ignoring the racing of his pulse. 

What had he expected? Wood’s parents belong to the category of hopeless romantics; he’d seen their quaint little family once in Diagon Alley. Little twelve year old Ollie, grinning with new broom in hand as his parents walked hand in hand behind him, matching bracelets around their wrists to indicate to the world that they loved everything the Fates had given them. 

That’s all Wood would’ve known. That’s what he must’ve been expecting - maybe a pretty girl like Bell or Johnson or Spinnet, or someone who would be easy to fall in love with, like Cedric Diggory, with his warm grey eyes and bright smile.

Wood tries to talk to him again, but Marcus inserts himself squarely in a pack of seventh-year Slytherins for the next three days. And even Wood isn’t stupid enough to bring it up in a hostile crowd. Marcus forces himself to be loud and boisterous, carefree and coarse, as if he hasn’t slept anything but fitfully since Wood’s found out. As if, when the night is most quiet, when even the lake has soothed itself down outside the Slytherin dorms, he doesn’t wonder what it would be like to have something like what soulmates are meant to have. 

***

The note is burning a hole in Marcus’ pocket, but practice doesn’t end until late because Montague and Warrington are acting up, and Malfoy is taking after them, and like hell Marcus is letting that behavior continue. 

Marcus thinks he shouldn’t even bother to read it. But he can’t bring himself to rip it up, can’t throw it into the fire.

It’s almost two by the time the common room clears out. His mates have gotten fed up and barged back into the dorm, and there’s only Adrian Pucey left curled in an armchair opposite him. Pucey’s fine, Marcus reasons, and finally retrieves the messily folded scrap of parchment. 

The bark of laughter that escapes him makes Pucey jolt awake from where he’d been previously dozing off on his textbook. But Marcus can’t even bother with the curious glance sent his way, because Wood - Wood’s a fucking riot.

Hilarious. A fucking  _ riot _ . 

_ We should at least give this a try _ , it says, somewhere in the middle of the hasty scrawl, as if Marcus has a choice, as if he could just tell his father that he’s  going to throw every political alliance their families made in the past eighteen years away, follow his  _ heart _ , like some besotted Hufflepuff - and oh! He might as well go ahead and drop the Ministry position for quidditch as well. 

He must sound deranged, because Pucey peers warily over his books. “Flint - er. You alright?”

“What?” 

“You sound a little -” Pucey mulls over his words, “Strung out. Something wrong?”

Marcus stares at Pucey, wondering how five years in a pit of vipers has still allowed him to be so vulnerable. But Adrian doesn’t look bothered, merely waiting for an answer. 

“Nothing, just - nothing.”

“Who’s it from?” Pucey cranes his neck. 

Marcus narrows his eyes. “You’re a nosy shit, aren’t you?”  

Pucey grins. “Pretty much, yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Adrian doesn’t say anything, but cocks his head a little like a puppy, and Marcus almost has the urge to smack him on the back of his head. There’s no room for innocence or - god forbid -  _ cuteness _ here in Slytherin. 

“Why aren’t you playing this year?” Marcus asks, trying to divert Adrian’s attention.

Adrian shrugs. “OWLs. Parents say I should focus. Who’s the letter from?” Pucey presses on.

Damn. 

“Soulmate,” Marcus says gruffly, because Pucey has big, curious blue eyes, “Issues, y’know.”

Adrian’s face turns glum. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, you’re still young,” Marcus coughs, suddenly feeling very awkward, “What? Years before you figure out who it is.”

“Already know who it is,” Pucey sighs, “Warrington doesn’t really shut his mouth, does he?”

Marcus clears his throat, cursing Higgs for - well, being Higgs. “Sorry. About that.”

Adrian shrugs, not as bothered as Marcus would imagine him being. “Well, he hasn’t talked to me. But we’ll see in a couple of years.”

Marcus pauses at the nonchalance, and the  _ assuredness _ that Pucey has in him and - oh Merlin. “Hell, you’re one of  _ those _ , aren’t you?”

“One of what?”

“Those people who - think soulmates are  _ soulmates _ . That everything’s gonna be perfect,” Marcus sighs, “That you’re gonna magically fall in love with one another and live happily ever after like some fucking fairy-tale.” 

Adrian quirks an eyebrow at Marcus, and Marcus doesn’t think he’s ever realized how cheeky Pucey can get. “It’s your ‘soulmate’ for a reason, Flint.”

“How many wizards stick with their soulmate?”

“Enough for it to count,” Adrian says, shoulders squared and jaw set, and Marcus is amazed at his conviction. Fifteen and so sure that Higgs is going to come back to him. “So - who is it?”

Marcus shakes his head, tosses the parchment back into his bag, and mumbles, “Wood.”

“What?”

“Wood,” Marcus manages. It’s weird, admitting it for the first time of his own volition.  _ Oliver Wood is my soulmate.  _ The moment is less nerve-wracking than he’d thought it’d be. 

Pucey merely looks at him. “And you’re going to disregard it?”

_ We should at least give this a try. _

Marcus thinks about Wood’s hand curled around his wrist. “Who knows.”

***

He gets tired of running away after a while, or maybe he’d tripped up and dwelled too long on late-night thoughts. Either way, when Wood confronts him a couple days after slipping him the note, Marcus doesn’t put up much of a fight, merely makes sure the Slytherin changing room doors are shut before turning to face Oliver. 

“We need to deal with this.”

“What’d I tell you,” Marcus sneers, “About using  _ we _ ?”

He’s impressed when Wood doesn’t flinch. Instead, he folds his arms and glares right back at Marcus. This - this, Marcus can do. A fight is easy. His wrist starts hurting again, but now, at least, he’s sure Wood’s hurting too. 

“Look,” Wood says, voice low, “This isn’t something we can just punch each other over and walk away from.”

“What makes you think it’s not?” Marcus retorts, even though deep down he’s telling himself the same thing. He’d tried avoiding it, and where had that brought him? Right back round, standing in front of his soulmate, trying to look away. 

Wood’s quiet, biting his bottom lip, brown hair that Marcus thinks would be soft to the touch flopping over his forehead. The silence is thick. Marcus can hear the sounds of Ravenclaw leaving the pitch and clamoring into their locker room, but all he can focus on is the cautious look on Wood’s face. 

“I thought, since you’ve known - you might’ve felt something, last year,” Wood says finally, “Out on the pitch-”

“I felt  _ nothing _ ,” Marcus stutters, panicked, because he had, he  _ had,  _ but he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want Wood to know. “Nothing, and don’t think because there’s some stupid fucking flimsy piece of - of  _ string _ between us now that I suddenly will.”

“That’s not how it works,” Wood frowns, “It’s not  _ random _ -”

“How do you know?” Marcus shoots back, terrified at what Wood is insinuating - as if this wasn’t a random roll of the dice, as if he and Wood would’ve wound up opposite each other in every turn of events, in every iteration of Marcus’ choices, like how soulmates are supposed to. 

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

“Fuck,” Marcus curses, before Wood can open his mouth again. The weight of this magic is finally hitting him in the face, and he wonders how Wood knows better than he does, even with a year-long head start.

“Finally get it, do you?” 

Wood looks at him with serious brown eyes, and Marcus wagers they have five minutes before the Slytherin team comes pounding on the door. They’re still standing across from each other. The red line connecting their wrists is starkly obvious against their robes. 

“You only get one soulmate.” Wood says quietly, and then he takes a step closer. 

Marcus doesn’t move back. He feels it coming, lets it  _ come _ , because he’d be lying if he hadn’t wondered before. 

_ What would kissing Wood be like, _ he’d asked himself once, after the fourth time they’d run into each other on the quidditch pitch. He’d been tipsy on the firewhiskey his mates had smuggled in, and he’d wondered, and he’d wanted more than he’d ever allowed himself.  He’d caught himself wanting once, ages ago, maybe back when Wood had just made captain. Back when Marcus realized he might like boys as well, and there was Oliver Wood, red robes askew, passionately pointing out diversionary tactics to his team. It’d been a one day thing, before he’d caught himself and thought  _ what a joke _ .

Except now it wasn’t a joke, and now Wood was leaning in and they should at least try, right?  __

So he gets his answer. 

Kissing Wood is softer than he’d imagined, slower. He’d only ever imagined the aggression that they hold on the pitch, but Wood is tentative. It makes Marcus want to cup his jaw and pull him closer and maybe nip at Wood’s bottom lip so he can kiss him proper, can kiss him fully and -

He pulls away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand because he can’t - he can’t. His future doesn’t allow two things and that’s quidditch and Oliver Wood. And Merlin, Marcus realizes, he wants both of them so badly he can’t figure out where one ends and the other begins, but all he knows is he can’t. 

“You only get one soulmate.” Wood repeats shakily, and it’s the most uncertain Marcus has ever heard his rival be. 

“Right,” Marcus says hoarsely, as the sounds of Warrington and Bletchley’s chattering grows closer, “But nothing says you have to choose them.”

Wood falls silent. He doesn’t look at Marcus, just nods once, sharply, and manages to slip out the back door before the rest of the Slytherin team streams in. 

***

Wood stops seeking him out after that, which makes Marcus both relieved and horrendously unhappy. He shouldn’t be, seeing as he’s the one who said what he said. But every time they’re in the same room, Wood looks the other way and Marcus, who’s spent more than a year avoiding looking at their soulmate thread, finds himself staring.  But he’s avoided for a year - he can keep doing this.  He could, theoretically, not talk to Wood at all, and he doesn’t all throughout October. It doesn’t stop Marcus from spending  the Halloween feast scanning the Gryffindor table, wondering why Wood’s normally cheerful face is nowhere near his team. The thread runs thin around his wrist.

The moment Marcus resigns himself to having dug his grave, Draco Malfoy is grimacing up at him with his arm in a sling. 

“What the hell,” Marcus sneers, “Did you do?”

“Bloody hippogriff has a bloated ego,” Malfoy gripes, and Marcus hears Bletchley make a pointed comment under his breath. Marcus agrees. “My father is going to-”

“I don’t care. Can you play?”

Warrington glances at the downpour outside, clicking his tongue. “Sure we wanna do that?”

The whole team turns at the pounding of thunder rolls across the pitch, and Marcus grimaces at the rain. It’s brought morale down, made everyone drag their feet, and even if they do win, it’ll be at the expense of being soaked frozen to the bone. 

“My arm’s pretty torn up,” Malfoy smirks, eyes gleaming, “We could ask to reschedule?”

“That’ll throw Wood off for sure,” Montague says amusedly, elbowing Marcus in the ribs, “Why not? If we can get it by Hooch, it’ll be hilarious.”

Marcus grinds his teeth, sizing up Malfoy - chances are Malfoy is exaggerating, but the prospect of getting out of a match that’s sure to be long and weary is tempting. But then there’s Wood - a year ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice of messing with Wood’s chances, but now there’s almost a responsibility. As silly as that is.  

But this could up their chances. And fuck, does Marcus want to win, one last time. 

Hooch looks skeptical when they present their case, but she concedes when Malfoy puts on a big act in trying to take a sip of water with his injured arm. “If you can get Mr. Wood and Mr. Diggory to agree, Mr. Flint, then we will reschedule the match.”

Marcus bites his tongue; Diggory’s easy - he’ll send Pucey or Montague to persuade or bully, respectively. But the thought of undercutting Wood still makes his wrist hurt, makes his throat constrict at the nerves. 

He nods, once, leading his team out of Hooch’s office, and breaking off to get the worst over with.

It gets easier to find Wood, Marcus realizes, because the magic tells him where to go. It leads him to the broom shed, even though that would’ve been Marcus’ third choice, after the pitch and the locker rooms.

He spots the familiar red robes and keeper gloves, owner bowed intently over his broomstick. 

“Wood,” Marcus says, but it’s too quiet. 

“Wood,” he tries again, voice harsh if only to get the name out of his throat. 

Oliver doesn’t look up. “What?”

So he saw him coming. 

“Our match, next week,” Marcus grunts, toeing the grass, “You’re playing the Puffs instead.”

Wood’s head snaps up, eyes large. “What the fuc-”

“My seeker’s injured,” Marcus says, lips curling up because the words taste false and sickly sweet on his tongue, “Can’t play. So now it’s you lot against Diggory.”

Marcus doesn’t think the connection has ever hurt quite this much before. He continues to stare at his face, but can feel the weight of Wood’s anger settling over his shoulders.

“You’re joking,” Wood says, voice quiet, eyes narrowed. “Malfoy isn’t even - do you think I’m an idiot?”

“We’re not playing, so get your shit together.” Marcus side-steps, because he knows Wood’s seeing right through him. His fists are clenched involuntarily - ready, apparently, for a fight.

But Wood doesn’t give it to him. 

“Fine,” the word runs sharp and bitter, and Marcus feels the magical distance between them grow. “Now fuck off, Flint.”

He heads towards the pitch, leaving Marcus staring after the red robes and the decisive steps and tense shoulders. Shaking shoulders. He almost hopes it’s with rage. 

Wood’s so pissed he’s forgotten his broom, and it lies on the grass. It’s polished neatly, but doesn’t do anything to hide the wear on it. He wonders if it’s the same one Wood’s had since he got on the team - possibly, but impressive if so, seeing as it’s all in one piece and very obviously taken care off. Marcus has half a mind to take the broom and go return it to Wood, but Flints don’t chase pathetically after the questionable object of their affections.

He hangs around long enough to watch the Gryffindors start practice, but then the sky opens up and the same horrendous downpour starts again. Marcus is cold everywhere except where his wrist is still burning, and it continues long after he meanders his way from the covered walkways back into the castle. 

He’s halfway back to his common room when a familiar sharp pain spreads in his chest, and Marcus manages to tuck himself into an empty classroom. It’s duller this time, not as excruciatingly present, but it feels like his chest is about to cave in on itself. It’s only when the pain stops that he realizes he’s on the ground again, legs sprawled out in front of him. 

The thread’s still there, stretched out to wherever Wood is - except it’s thinner. A little duller in color. He’s a hypocrite, really, to be feeling this badly about his soulmate wanting nothing to do with him. Angry enough to attempt to break something they value so much. And now, Wood most likely knows Marcus had tried it himself. 

How could he have been so  _ stupid _ to not think that the person on the other end wouldn’t feel it as well? 

Marcus closes his eyes. It shouldn’t bother him this much - Wood wants it gone. Marcus can’t have it. For all intents and purposes, they’re on the same page, and can pretend this stupid bond they have doesn’t matter. They can, and they should, move on and continue with the trajectory of their lives. 

His mouth tastes dusty, from the classroom, and sour from the bile that’s rising in his throat. 


	3. Chapter 3

The parchment in front of him is taunting - Marcus’ quill is poised, but he doesn't know what to say. His mother’s  _ heard _ , apparently, from the Warringtons, who work with Mrs. Greengrass, who had overheard Mrs. Wood talking to her sister about her son’s soulmate and it’d all been very hush-hush except all hints lead to Marcus. 

What does he say? 

_ Yeah Mum, I've already fucked everything up enough that you and Father don't have to worry about it.  _

_ Sorry, I don't think I can be you and ignore the thread, but that's not my choice anymore.  _

_ Yeah, I really want Oliver Wood, but that's dead, so maybe you can offer your sympathies by letting me play Quidditch? _

Instead, he writes the formal style of apology that will hopefully make his father hate him a little less, and asks for advice. Marcus pretends the situation is untouched, even though it’s pretty much been obliterated under his feet. 

Potter had fallen off his broom, and Marcus feels guilty - almost, because how the fuck was he supposed to know the dementors would invade the pitch? It doesn’t do anything to make seeing Wood, all pale and sullen the week after the match, any easier. He’d been a reason for that. 

He thinks, even if he and Wood were a thing, that he’d probably always be a reason for that. 

Marcus spends more time picking at the edges of his homework than actually doing it, even going to - _ the horror _ \- the library to try and focus on multiple evenings. Pince had given him strange looks, as had the bushy haired friend of Potter’s, but he’d ignored them in favor of the corner tables. 

He can’t study, which is hilarious given that this time around he’s actually trying. No, instead of Transfiguration principles and plant lifecycles, Marcus’ head keeps replaying Wood’s back turned to him, the cold turn away whenever they meet walking opposite directions in the halls, and the hasty retreat Wood had beaten that one time they’d found themselves alone in the Captain’s meeting room. 

“Poor ol’ Flint,” Adrian sighs one day, as Marcus tries but fails to stop glancing at Wood from across the Great Hall, “So sad and alone. Pining away.”

Marcus retaliates by singeing Pucey’s eyebrows off. 

It’s a few days later that Marcus caves, antsy over the reply that’s taking too long from his parents. All the worst scenarios would have happened by now - disownment, maybe, a withdrawal from school. That last option wouldn’t be terrible; it’d mean no staring at the back of Wood’s head with guilt tumbling in his stomach for the whole class. 

But Marcus doesn’t want to admit that the thought of no Oliver, no soulmate, makes his heart plummet deep in his chest.

So he cracks. 

“Wood,” Marcus calls over the din of his classmates leaving Transfiguration one day. He watches a couple curious heads look towards his direction, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Oliver freezes, before packing his bags with a renewed vigor. Lucky for Marcus and unluckily for him, Marcus shoves his way through his classmates and gets to his desk before Wood can bolt. 

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Wood mumbles, but his ink bottle clatters to the ground in his haste and explodes on the stone floor. McGonagall gives them a piercing stare at her desk, and Marcus takes pity, scourgifying the mess before a clearly flustered Wood tries to sop up the mess with his papers. 

Marcus closes his hand over Wood’s bicep, drags him out into the now empty hallway. “Look, I didn’t think that you’d lose.”

“Honestly, I really don’t care what you think at this point,” Wood’s voice is strained, and he makes to leave, albeit failing due to Marcus’ hand still being tight around his arm. 

“Would you stay still?” 

Wood glares, shaking Marcus off. He doesn’t make to walk away though, instead staring pointedly at a spot close to Marcus’ shoulder. 

“I - guess I’m sorry. About the match.” Marcus blurts, words stalling and mind blank because, truth be told, he didn’t think he’d get this far. He bites his lip, and a long stretch of silence hangs between them. The thread blinks red in his periphery. Marcus clears his throat. 

Wood shrugs, still not meeting Marcus’ eyes. “Okay. Look - it doesn’t matter.” 

“Fine,” Marcus says, and then can’t help but press for more, because he’s unsure when the next time he’s going to be able to get Wood to talk to him again is, and he can’t let the most weighted thing sit in his chest any longer, not with Wood looking the way he does. “And - the thread.”

“I did it on impulse,” Wood switches to staring at the ceiling, “Didn’t mean...fuck, I was mad, alright?” 

Marcus feels his mouth dry, unable to form proper words or force himself to speak. But Wood just keeps going, blinking rapidly. 

“But I didn’t know that you’d already tried. Before - before I knew about it. Probably should’ve, since I  _ felt _ it, but I was an idiot, and hopeful so -” The laugh that Wood gives is derisive and shaky, and Marcus  _ needs _ to say something but he’s apparently lost his voice, watching Wood avoid his gaze any way possible. 

“Look, I get it now,” Wood finishes quietly, picking at the strap of his bag. “I shouldn’t have pushed for anything. We can just pretend this isn’t a thing, alright?” 

Wood looks increasingly uncomfortable, and Marcus knows he’s never been good at hiding his emotions. He’s seen enough snarling teeth and tight jaws across the pitch before whenever fouls were called for him to read anger clearly in Wood’s features. This isn’t it, though. This is - resignation. Vulnerability. There’s no passion in the way Wood is addressing him, no foolhardy fighting spirit that Marcus thinks has always drawn him like a moth to flame. It sickens him, but it makes him want to make things right.

Wood makes to turn away, but Marcus steps in his path.

“No, hold on, Oliver,” Marcus tries, and Wood huffs softly at the first name recognition, “I shouldn’t have said what I said. Didn’t - didn’t mean it.”

Wood narrows his eyes. “What’re you playing at?”

“I-,” Marcus stumbles, “I made a mistake.” 

Wood arches an eyebrow. 

Marcus plunders on, suddenly feeling awkward and very loud in the far too quiet corridor. “When I tried to break it. I panicked, that’s the reason. The only reason. Not because I didn’t...want you.” 

He watches the waver in Wood’s stance, watches Wood bite his bottom lip. Marcus wants to kiss him so horrendously, so horribly much. 

“You panicked.” Wood says. 

“I panicked.” Marcus responds.

He watches the rise and fall of Oliver’s adam’s apple. “And you want me?”

“I didn’t mean it - what I said, that day in the lockers.” Marcus confesses, and it feels like a harsh, dark secret spilling out of his chest. It’s an oil spill waiting to catch flame, the way Wood is looking at him with disbelief, apprehension, and - hope. That’s hope. Marcus feels his breath catch in his chest. 

“What  _ did _ you mean?”

Before he can consciously think of what he’s doing, Marcus is reaching out for the collar of Wood’s shirt, reaching out and watching the thread shrink along with the distance between them, and Wood isn’t stopping him, and then he’s kissing Oliver Wood for the second time. 

Wood’s frozen under his touch, but Marcus kisses, desperate. Needs to pour out his apologies and somehow balm the hurt that’s still coming off of Wood in waves. 

“I’m sorry,” Marcus mutters against Wood’s lips, “I am. Please believe me.”

Wood shudders, breath exhaling quickly. Then he’s kissing Marcus back, equally desperate.

He gets the ferocity he’s always expected in the next kiss, nipping teeth and lips kissed raw by the time they part, then part again, and yet again. Wood’s grip on Marcus’ arm is tight and pressing; he can feel the heat of Wood’s hand through the thin starch of his shirt and it’s intoxicating, this. 

Marcus  _ wants.  _

The coursing of magic through their veins, as Wood fists his hands in Marcus’ shirt, as Marcus tries to not to keel over from the force of how much he wants this, wants this to continue, and wants to keep being the cause of those little noises Wood is making in his throat. 

The reverie they’ve fallen into breaks as a group of giggling first years turn the corner, and Marcus springs back. Wood’s face goes blank, but he steps back, following Marcus’ movement. Marcus motions with his head that they should slip into an empty classroom.

Wood settles on a desk, watching Marcus close the door. “There you go again.”

“What?”

Oliver gestures widely. “The whole back and forth. One moment you’re all ‘I don’t want you’, the next you’re snogging me in the middle of the hall? Then you’re back to the first.”

“What? I don’t - not want you!”

“Shoving me away because some kids came round the corner? Sounds pretty disposable to me.”

“Disposable? You’re not -  _ fucking _ hell - this isn’t,” Marcus struggles, “this isn’t that easy.”

“Clearly.” Wood scoffs. It’s better to see him angry than avoidant, however, and Marcus dares to move closer, standing in front of Wood so he’s looking down at long lashes and the slightest scattering of freckles and a mouth kissed red. He did that - it’s like a drunken rush through his veins and Marcus is unsure whether it’s because of the soulmate magic or just Wood, capable of making him dizzy. 

When Marcus goes in for another kiss, Oliver turns away. 

“I’m not playing this game, Flint.”

“S’not a game.”

Wood’s eyes flash in the dimly lit room. “You’re treating me like one.” 

“It’s not  _ easy _ ,” Marcus grits his teeth, unwilling to let his frustration spoil over. It’s a cold reminder that Oliver has a very different idea of what soulmates should entail. “Fuck - I’m sorry, alright? I fucked up - trying to break the thread, and, well. You know.”

The apology seems to lower Oliver’s guard, at least a tiny amount. 

“What’s not easy?” 

Marcus seats himself on an adjacent desk, picking at the dried ink stains. “This. This situation.”

Wood snorts. “You mean, the person you’re attached to.”

“No,” Marcus looks up, and he makes sure Oliver meets his gaze. He needs Wood to know this - needs him to know that it’s the whole thing, this whole encapsulating situation, and not because Marcus doesn’t want the person on the other end of his soulmate thread. “No, it’s - well, it is and it isn’t.”

Oliver cocks his head to the side, arms crossed. Judging. Deliberating. “Explain?” 

“When I graduate, it’s right to the Ministry. My family’s got the position settled for ages,” Marcus says, “And after that - get married, have some runts, and then keep doing what you’d expect all old pureblood families to do.”

“...So me being your soulmate throws a wrench in that.” Wood’s looking at him, really looking at him now, brown eyes direct and focused and Marcus can’t breathe for a moment, having Wood’s full attention. “Sorry.” 

He doesn’t sound a smidgen apologetic.

Marcus shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve ever wanted it.”

“What  _ do _ you want?”

It’s a hard question. Marcus doesn’t have an answer - not a decisive one, anyways, because there are many things he wants, but none that seem plausible enough for him to have. 

“...Quidditch.” Marcus says, because that’s something Wood can probably guess. 

Wood gets to his feet, raking his hands through his hair and it looks like when it’s windswept, after he’s just gotten off his broom. Marcus has the urge to brush it tidy again, but he can’t deny that he likes it when Wood looks like this. 

“And this,” Wood asks, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, “Do you want this?” 

And the answer, Marcus realizes, after hazy nights spent half asleep, dreaming about Wood’s mouth, dreams where  _ he’s _ there and so is Marcus and there’s the thread tangling, tangling, tangling them up - the answer is yes. 

“Yes.” Marcus says, throat dry.

Wood’s jaw tightens, mouth a thin line and Marcus thinks this is when he’s going to be told he’s fucked up too far, has driven away his own soulmate by his indecision, by his own fear. 

“And you-” Wood asks, chewing on his bottom lip, “You’re not playing me?”

Marcus stills, watching the wariness rolling off of Wood’s frame in waves, and it makes him feel sick, thinking about what he’s been putting his own fucking  _ soulmate _ through.

“No,” Marcus says, closing the gap between them and crushing Wood’s body against his, burying his face into Wood’s hair. “No, Merlin, I -  _ Oliver _ .”

Wood shudders against him, a low exhale of a sigh. He doesn’t make to move out of Marcus’ arms, letting Marcus hold him, and it feels better than Marcus could’ve imagine. A weight off his chest, the soulmate thread singing between them. 

They stay like that for Merlin knows how long, but it’s only after they part that Marcus catches a glimpse of Oliver’s smile. It’s probably horrible, that he’s gotten himself caught in the fairytale of soulmates, but Marcus can’t find it in himself to care anymore. 

When Oliver initiates their third proper kiss, Marcus closes his eyes and relishes the way Wood tastes, the slightly chapped lips, the way Oliver’s hands are tight in his shirt, and Marcus clings back. He’s drowning. There’s really no way out after this, Marcus knows, because now that he’s had Wood, now that he knows what he  _ can _ have, he doesn’t want to let it go. 

“Wood, I can’t- ” Marcus says quietly between kisses, “I can’t promise that I’m not going to fuck up.”

Oliver snorts. “No shit.”

“No, I - I’m sorry.” Marcus says again, hoping that it drives home how bitterly guilty he’s felt about this for the past couple of months. 

“I know. And I know this isn’t going to be easy,” Wood detaches himself from Marcus, leaning besides him on the desk, “But.” 

Marcus feels the soft touch of fingers against his wrist, and he takes Wood’s hand in his before he can actively think of what he’s doing. He rubs his thumb over calluses in familiar places, from years of catching quaffles, and watches as the thread winds three loops around their wrist, settling close to their skin and metaphysically binding them together. 

Oliver hum softly, and Marcus can’t help but press his lips to Wood’s temple, magic fizzling pleasantly between them. 

“I have to get to class.” Wood pipes up a couple moments later.

Marcus doesn't make to release his hand. “Skip it.”

It's the first laugh that's not laden with hurt that Marcus can remember in the short couple of months in their fall-out.

“You're going to be a horrible influence,” Oliver sighs, but he doesn't look bothered. Marcus let's the concept of ‘going to be’ flood his senses - it’s a promise of potential. He can make do with that. 

He pulls Oliver in again, and Wood comes easily enough to his arms. It makes him wonder when Oliver had started wanting this - whether it's been anything other than a sudden wildfire. Whether they're more alike than they’re meant to believe. 

“Skip,” Marcus suggests again, and he presses an open mouthed kiss to the side of Oliver’s neck. It makes a thrill run down his spine, the smooth expanse of skin under his touch, and Wood’s slight allowance as his head tips to one side. 

Before he can do anything more, Oliver detaches himself from Marcus’ arms, rolling his eyes. “Can’t. Vector’s not going to take kindly to me missing another class, let alone if I walk in with a hickey.”

Marcus stifles a groan at the loss, Oliver’s body heat a quick comfort and fuck, he’s got it bad, hasn’t he? It's the pull of Fate, the allure of Wood’s slight smile. 

He keeps his reputation well enough, limiting himself to watching Wood gather his belongings. 

Oliver picks at the strap of his bag again. “So - I’ll see you.”

“Sure,” Marcus coughs, “Yeah.”

Wood flashes him that same small smile again before darting outside, leaving Marcus to sit and stare at his retreating back. He manages to wipe off the wide grin pulling at his cheeks before leaving the classroom himself.

***

His mother’s letter comes two weeks late. It makes everything worse, because in the span of two weeks, Marcus has kissed Oliver Wood approximately twenty-six times (roughly - he can’t be  _ entirely _ sure) and and held his hand twice and groaned into a pillow while Pucey snickered behind his books about how he’s acting like a giggling third year Hufflepuff in their first romance.

They’d also fought twice, but Marcus prefers to think about the feeling of pressing Wood against the lip of the prefect’s bath, the soft moans, the hours they’d spent shivering out by the stands, outlining where Japan had gone wrong in the quarterfinals and whether they’d bet on Lynch at all, given his penchant for injuries.

It’s too easy. Soulmates - being soulmates is too  _ easy _ when it’s just the two of them. They’ve fallen into place like a needle finding its path on the grooves of the record and sometimes something jolts it out of place but for two weeks, for their tumultuous history and beginning, Marcus doesn’t think it’s going  _ bad _ . 

It’s too easy. He almost forgets why it isn’t. 

So - his mother writes back.

Marcus knows that she’s probably had to whittle his father down, had to deal with the anger and for that, he’s grateful. Through the flowery language and the crossed out lines, Marcus understands what they want him to do, what they’re offering - either break all ties with Oliver and start after the career of his dreams, or face a future in the Ministry. 

Marcus isn’t an idiot. He knows that having both Oliver and the Ministry won’t do any good - he hears the whispers, senses the political atmosphere. Tensions are high and aligning the Flints with a family as Light-leaning as the Woods wouldn’t help either party.

There’s a very clearly carved way out, the one they want him to choose. Marcus curses, shredding the corners of the parchment.

He gives Oliver the letter to read, knows that Wood’s smart and knows the way family politics work. It’s easier than him trying to explain it - easier than admitting that he’s still a coward, and still bowed to his father’s legacy. 

Oliver’s quiet for a good long while, eyes scanning and rescanning the contents of the letter. When he finally drops the parchment, his face is carefully schooled. Or as much as it can be - Marcus still sees the droop in his mouth, the slightly furrowed brow. 

He’s perched cross legged and barefooted on the Gryffindor locker bench and Marcus is straddling a chair he’d nicked from Hooch’s office across from him. Wood’s fingers fidget with the hem of his trousers. Marcus resists the urge to hold his hand. 

Oliver sighs, resigned, and shakes his head. “I’m not going to make you choose.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus sighs, “ _ They’re _ going to, anyways.” 

Oliver bites at his bottom lip. Stares at where the parchment is resting on the ground. Marcus grinds his teeth, popping his knuckles because easiness had been short-lived, a brutal tease of happiness.

Oliver doesn’t ask, but Marcus knows the question is there.

“I don’t know.” Marcus answers to the silence. 

Wood huffs out a bitter laugh. “Figured.”

Marcus narrows his eyes. “Figured?”

“No just - family first, right?” Oliver backtracks, clearly biting down the things he actually wants to say. He stands, running his hands through his hair - a move that Marcus has grown to learn means he’s aggravated.

“What do your ‘rents say about this, then?” Marcus challenges, tension in the pit of his stomach rising. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t. But he’s going to anyway. “Perfect son, stuck with some  _ troll  _ like me.”

Oliver’s eyes flash. “You’re not - don’t call yourself that.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. He knows what the first years call him behind his back, in relation to his teeth. Oliver, apparently, takes personal offense. 

Oliver rubs the back of his neck. “When I told them...they told me to make the most of it.”

“Ah,” Marcus says, “Great. Perfect. So you’re making the most of it, are you, Wood?”

“Why are you being so nasty?”

“When haven’t I been?”

Oliver’s teeth are bared now. “Fuck. Fuck, you’re so bloody difficult.  _ Look _ \- I’m not stupid enough to think you’d choose me over family, okay? I fucking - I  _ want _ you to, because, fuck, I just want to be selfish for  _ once _ , but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

His jaws clenched and angry. But it’s the wobble in Oliver’s voice that makes Marcus lean back against the locker, close his eyes, and swallow down his frustration. 

Because he’s not angry at Wood, not really. Pushing it all onto Oliver right now - well, that would just get rid of the need to making a decision. And fuck - Wood’s right. He wants Oliver to be selfish. Hell,  _ Marcus _ wants to be selfish, wants to have everything that’s right there in front of him, if he only had the will to remove himself from under his father’s thumb. 

When he dares to look, Oliver’s swiping at his eyes with a forceful hand. 

“Wood - Oliver,” Marcus’ mouth dries, “You really want this?”

Oliver laughs again, the same hollow way that makes Marcus’ chest ache. “I wanted this since before I turned seventeen, Flint. Make of that what you will.”

“Oh.” Marcus breathes.

“Yeah.”

It’s the rawest confession Oliver’s made to him in the short span of their time together. It feels like it’s meant for quiet moments at night, hidden amidst the swathes of bed curtains, when you can only make out the side profile of your bed partner. Not for sitting in a grimy quidditch locker room, both of them smelling faintly of sweat and broom polish. 

“Thought you’d put it together by now.” Oliver’s smile is self-deprecating.

Marcus shrugs. “I’m not too bright.”

Oliver looks to argue back, but Marcus cuts him off. “I said that I didn’t know, Wood. About what to choose.” 

It’s only right to spill a bit of truth back himself, right? Honor the give and take. 

“Don’t think that I don’t want to be selfish too.”

It doesn’t make Oliver look him in the eye, but it does get him to sit back down. Marcus reaches over, brushes his thumb along the rough knuckles of Oliver’s hand, and Oliver sighs, shuffling a bit closer. 

He kisses Oliver like a man drowning, because he doesn’t know how many there are left. It’s up to him to determine, isn’t it? He needs to - it’s unfair to keep Oliver strung along, and with a sinking realization, Marcus thinks Oliver might have settled for taking what he can get. 

“I’ll sort it out,” Marcus says, hoping that he can actually can, “After break. I’ll let you know after break. I swear.”

Winter break is two weeks away, and it feels like coming full circle. Last time, he’d been anxiously staring at his bare wrist. Now, it’s the metaphoric snipping of the thread that keeps them attached. If he chooses that, anyways. 

Oliver sighs again. “Fine.”

“Wood-”

“No, it’s fine,” Oliver extracts his hand from Marcus' grip, and it makes Marcus want to take back everything he's said in the last few minutes. "Let's just forget about this, alright? For the time being."

Marcus wants to bite out that it's easy for Oliver to say, given that it's not  _ his _ family that he's going to be going up against. He realigns himself, noting the way Oliver's bottom lip is still bitten between white teeth - this isn't about him. It  _ is _ , but it’s also about him stringing along a boy who he's inadvertently gotten so disastrously attached to in the past months. And Marcus is many things - brutal on the pitch, rude, sullen, but he's never been one to hurt the ones he cares about.

Oliver Wood’s somehow gotten to that level. Of being particularly well-rooted in Marcus' chest.

"I'll let you know," Marcus repeats, "But you - you're my soulmate. That's not going to change."

And that, at least, gets Oliver to meet his gaze, and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got very very out of hand BUT our boys will achieve happiness, okay i promise


	4. Chapter 4

The last night before the train home is spent with Marcus sneaking into Gryffindor, Oliver somehow timing it so the common room is empty. When they open the door to Oliver’s dorm, however, Percy Weasley is sitting on his bed, organizing papers into his bag.

Marcus makes to turn back, but Weasley doesn't look too surprised. He does send a sharp glare Marcus' way the moment he puts his glasses back on.

"Flint." He says coolly.

Marcus grunts in acknowledgement. He catches Oliver rolling his eyes off to the side, and makes a beeline for the only other four poster bed in the room. He hadn't even thought of Weasley being Wood's only companion in their years at Hogwarts, but it makes sense. The Light side had suffered more casualties than the circle Marcus is used to.

"Percy, ah - are you-"

"Leaving, don't worry, Oliver. Do try to keep things to your side of the room."

Oliver smiles sheepishly, and Weasley sends Marcus another disdainful look before strolling out of the dorm. Oliver pats the bedspread from where he's sitting, and Marcus settles by him, sinking into the comforter.

"So he knows." Marcus comments.

"Mhm," Oliver says, "Can't say he's - too on board with the whole thing."

Marcus picks at a spare thread. "Doubt any of your friends would be."

Oliver shrugs, letting himself flop back onto his bed with an ease and grace that Marcus could never dream of achieving. "Dunno. I haven't told them." He runs a hand down Marcus' arm. "It doesn't really matter to me, though."

With that, Oliver pulls Marcus down by his side, and they've spent a fair handful of nights like this since their discussion in the locker rooms, but it's never been this poignant. Never been this fragile because even if they've both abided to the agreement to not discuss the prospect of the future, it doesn't escape their notice that this is the last night before winter break comes to sweep them both away.

Marcus presses Oliver down into the sheets, latches his mouth against the sensitive point right under the point of Oliver's jaw, closes his eyes and wills away the thought that he might not have this soon.

And fuck, he's so angry, all of a sudden, at his parents, but also at himself, for being such a coward. Because that's what he is - he could go back home with head held high and tell his father to go fuck himself, and take the brunt of whatever punishment they have for him. But he's not going to - no, he's going to go home and try to evade the question. The chances of him bending to what his father wants is far higher than him putting his own desires first.

Oliver mumbles his name against his lips as their shirts are quickly discarded, grip tight where his one hand is settled on Marcus' hip. Marcus detaches himself from Oliver's mouth, buries his face into the crook of Oliver's neck and inhales the scent of citrus and locker room soap.

"I'm sorry," Marcus mumbles, and he's not sure Wood's caught it until Oliver's hands still from where they're running over his back.

"Is that your answer?"

Marcus stares in the grey darkness of the canopied bed, Oliver's eyes glittering faintly in the way they're shining with - something. Marcus doesn't think it's tears, but he wouldn't be surprised. "No."

"Ah."

He pulls himself up so they're face to face, tips of their noses touching and the thread is entangling their limbs now. Marcus watches it loop over and over again, through the crooks of their elbows, around their necks, knotted most fiercely around their wrists. It's so starkly red in the darkness that Marcus wants it to be tangible, to prove to himself that he can't walk away from this intact.

"You said after break." Oliver says, running his free hand along the broadness of Marcus' shoulder, "So I'm not taking apologies until then."

The resignation in Wood's voice makes Marcus want to throw his father's offer back into the old man's face, if not out of love then at least spite.

Oliver kisses him again, fierce and sharp in the way it's more teeth than anything else. The night is filled with Oliver's nails raking down his back, harsh kissing against the most easily bruised parts of his body. As if Wood's determined to make a mark. As if the thread isn't enough to bind them together, and Oliver wants physical representation, a blatant "I was here".

Marcus lets him.

***

Dinner the first night back at home starts as a cold, quiet affair. His father barely acknowledges his presence, choosing to direct all his ire at their house elves. Marcus stabs his knife into the piece of meat in front of him, appetite lost.

His mother is avoiding his gaze. It most definitely doesn't help that Wood had decided to leave a noticeable purple hickey along the very top of his neck, and even Marcus' highest collared shirts aren't enough to cover up the obvious mark. He would almost be pleased, the latent possessiveness of Oliver Wood coming out to show, if it weren't for the circumstances.

"Marcus," his mother says warmly, although her smile is strained, "How was your semester?"

"Decent," Marcus says through a mouthful of potatoes, "Not failing, am I?"

His father's derisive snort rings out in the large dining room, but Flint Sr. doesn't make any other comment.

“That's good to hear," his mother's gaze drifts to his collar, "And - you got our letter, I'm presuming?"

Marcus nods. The potatoes in his mouth are suddenly dry and choking.

"It's common etiquette to reply." His father bites.

"What do you think, Marcus?" His mother cuts in, clearly trying to avoid hexes being thrown over the dinner table. "This is your future, and you should be well on your way to moving towards it by now. I heard the Falcons are looking for new recruits, according to Mr. Greengrass."

"I'm not fond of the Falcons, Mother."

"The Magpies, then. Or Appleby; any team would be lucky to have you." The brilliant smile his mother sends his way makes Marcus feel sick. He's never been complimented for his quidditch - rather, most of the time he'd spent outside was met with derisive comments from his father and reminders to focus on 'what's important' from his mother.

He'd criticize his mother for doing such a blatant about-face if it weren't for the very clear tension in the room. His father looks about ready to drop-kick one of the poor house-elves. Marcus motions discreetly with his hand to Floppy to leave the room.

"Maybe I don't want to go into quidditch." He stumbles over the blatant lie, but it doesn't hurt as much as he'd imagined it to. Not with the way Oliver had brushed his fingers over Marcus' left wrist and offered a quiet goodbye before they parted to sit with their mates on the train home. He'd wanted to call Oliver back, to tell him that he'd say fuck it to it all, and would choose him. But he couldn't promise that. And that was the truth they both knew.

But the ease with which he's able to blow off quidditch right now both terrifies and emboldens him.

"What use would you make in the Ministry?" His father laughs, cold and high. "Silly boy."

Marcus narrows his eyes. "Aren't you the one who set me up for it?"

"Marcus-"

Marcus cuts off his mother's plea for peace. "Seems like an easy in. Why not? I'm obviously not good enough for the League - isn't that what you two have always said?"

His mother sets down her wine glass with a heavier clunk than normal. "No, Marcus, we've always believed in you-"

Marcus laughs heartily at that, and for a second he catches his mother and father exchange a surprised glance. He's been a difficult child, stubborn, a brat on occasion, but blatantly laughing in his parent's faces? 

That's new. It's new and, if Marcus wants to admit it, it feels fucking good.

"Don't fucking bullshit me."

"Marcus!"

But Marcus has already shoved his plate away, and while Floppy hobbles back in and begins fretting about Marcus not finishing his meal, Marcus is already striding out of the room, out the front doors, and pitching himself deep into the maze of shrubbery that makes up Flint Manor's back garden. The snow crunches softly under his steps, but his anger is boiling over so quickly that he can barely feel the cold.

He hurls a hex at the nearest shrub, and it catches fire when the magic hits. Marcus watches it flicker and dance, burning the leaves to nothing. He extinguishes it before it spreads but a sickly part of him thinks it'd be immensely satisfying to burn down the grounds that his father always shows off to guests.

He stays there for a good while, hurling whatever small rocks he can get his hands on at tree trunks, at the frozen over fountain, at the stupid, ugly statue of Josephina Flint that’s erected in the middle of the grounds. 

His hands are freezing and his face is numb and it’s not until he’s run out of readily available objects to throw that Marcus realizes he’s crying. 

He loses track of how long he’s been out here - his father wouldn’t care, but he knows his mother, for all her lack of conviction, cares well enough about him. Or at least, cares enough to send Floppy out to get him inside again. He’s about to resign himself to slinking back in through the backdoors, when feet crunching through the snow alert his attention.

It’s not his old house elf, however, but rather his mother, dressed in dark robes and her classic fur-lined cloak around her shoulders that emerges in his peripheral. Marcus resigns himself to a lecture, but instead of requesting him to return back inside, she settles next to him on the stone bench he’s chosen as his seat of despair. 

“You’ll have to forgive me,” His mother breaks the silence, “I was under the impression that quidditch would have been the easier way out.”

Marcus stills. His mother fills in the space for him. 

“Perhaps I should’ve predicted this.”

“What’re you talking about?” He’s being rude, but he can’t stop the words from spilling out, bitter and sullen. 

“Muggles can’t see their soulmate threads,” his mother comments, “I’m unsure whether they know if the concept exists. Sometimes I wonder if it’s for the best.”

Marcus narrows his eyes, unsure of where exactly his mother is going with this, but she doesn’t seem bothered by his obvious antsiness, looking at her own wrist with a quiet amusement. 

“Lucky them.” Marcus grumbles, staring at his own thread. It’s stretched thin and faint, what with the distance between him and Wood, but sometimes he imagines he can feel a mis-matched pulse against his skin, a reassurance that Oliver’s heart is a just a step ahead. 

His mother hums. “You think so?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“So you would choose to never know if you had a soulmate?”

Marcus huffs, breath cold and present, hanging in the winter air. His hands are going to be cold for a while, even after he’s returned inside. He doesn’t grace his mother with an answer. 

“Perhaps you’re right. Ignorance, or naivety - that’s bliss. I had to bear the weight of knowing my soulmate was right in front of me, but I could never say.”

And with that, Marcus finally turns to face his mother’s profile. She’s got the classic grim smile he’s grown up knowing, but it’s sadder this time. Reluctant. Regretful. 

“You-” Marcus stutters, “I thought you said you didn’t bother?”

“Oh love,” his mother laughs, “It’s been a year, and you still think it’s that easy to turn away?” She rests a hand on his shoulder, his bulky shoulder and it’s in this moment that Marcus is reminded of how much he takes after his father - the stature, the face, the cold grey eyes. His mother’s hand is slim and dainty and light against his sweater.

“There are considerations. What-ifs, perhaps. The man who was supposed to be my soulmate worked in the bakery down the road when I was living in London. I talked to him, for a couple months, just from dropping in, and it was - exhilarating. Terrifying, also.”

Marcus frowns, knowing his mother’s side is still blatantly traditional in their ways. “I can imagine.” 

“He was courting me, at the end of the day, and I let him,” his mother’s regretful smile is back, and Marcus wonders whether his father knows this - knows the history behind his mother’s refusal of her soulmate. “You know, of course, that I gave that chance up. It was my own choice, but sometimes I imagine differently.”

“I didn’t love him, Marcus, if you were wondering,” Aurelia Flint says, “But I know I could have.” 

And Marcus can pinpoint that exact feeling - of watching Oliver take off night after night, flying on his old Comet into the sky and imagining multiple hazy scenarios in which he wouldn’t be pretending to look away. 

“Even if you hate the person you’re connected to, it’s never easy.” His mother hands him a pair of gloves but Marcus only holds them, runs his fingers over the wool trim.

“I don’t hate him.”

His mother arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No, I - no.” 

“Do you care for him?”

He slides on the gloves, stretches his fingers, cracks his knuckles in order to stall for time. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

His mother looks at him, and holds his gaze long enough that he breaks and looks back down at his snow-covered feet. “Do you care enough to leave certain things behind?”

Marcus’ chest hurts. Quidditch, the feeling of a broom gripped tight in his palm, the air whipping in his hair - he’s greedy and it’s been his escape for so long he doesn’t quite know what he would do without it. The game is all he knows. It’s all he’s truly good at and fuck, after all of Oliver’s encouragement, he thinks he could make it.

The last of his father’s already low regard for him only stings slightly, but it’s sharp and acidic nonetheless. 

But then. 

The taste of Oliver’s mouth, the rawness in Marcus’ throat from talking, discussing,  _ debating _ for hours on end. The way Oliver looks at him and Marcus doesn’t feel odd at all, for being looked at, for being so caught in such an intense focus. The fan of Wood’s lashes against his just slightly freckled cheeks as he’s sleeping. The way playing just isn’t quite the same if Oliver isn’t the one facing him off at the goal posts. The warm pleasant buzz of the way the soulmate magic runs like a victory lap over their skin when their fingers are tangled in one another’s. 

“I-” Marcus chokes, because he wants, craves both so much but he knows one wins out, easy. “I told him. About choosing.”

“Honest, at least.” 

“Told him I’d decide by the end of break.”

His mother is quiet for a long while, as Marcus fights the urge to curl in on himself, and ask her for some semblance of order. He hasn’t chosen anything for himself like this before. He doesn’t think he’s going to get a second chance. 

“So you will,” his mother says finally, “You owe him an answer, after all. And dare I say, far more than your father.”

“I know,” Marcus says, and he follows the red line stretching out, brilliant, past the black of his gloves, striking out far beyond where he can see, dragging a path against the white snow on the ground.

***

“Marcus,” his mother says before he boards the train, engine smoke and the bustle of the crowd almost drowning out her words, “There will be people you love and people that love you and sometimes, you will be lucky enough to have both coincide.”

Marcus bends down a little, on cue, to let her press a kiss to his cheek, and feels the weight of the words sink at his feet. But he’s made up his mind, hasn’t he? 

He’s had it decided since that first dinner back home, since the last night at Hogwarts before break, since he’d gotten the letter - had made his mind up, perhaps, the moment the thread had first appeared between him and Oliver, blazing red and impossible to ignore. But he’d ignored it. He’d ignored it, and he’d known what that’d been like and - 

He can do this. 

“I know, Mother.” 

His father had declined the usual trip to King’s Cross, not that Marcus is surprised. He’s almost glad for it, won’t have to see the smug look on his father’s face when the news breaks, the final nail in the coffin to prove that Marcus will never live up to his expectations, too weak to break away from the path he’s set. 

But Marcus doesn’t much care anymore. He has something better. 

He lurches with the movement of the train, walking right past the compartment where Montague and Warrington are starting a game of Exploding Snap and trying to wave him in.

The last compartment of the train is empty save for one Gryffindor keeper, who gets to his feet the moment Marcus slides the compartment door open. Oliver bites his lip when Marcus doesn’t bother pulling down the shades to the door. Some curious second years are peeking from the compartment across from them, but Marcus knows what he wants. 

Oliver looks at him cautiously, arms hanging loose by his side. Their soulmate thread sways slightly with the movement of the train. They both make an effort not to look at it.  

“Hi,” Marcus says, throat tight. 

Wood swallows visibly. “Mind made up, then?”

“Yeah,” Marcus says and takes three steps forward to close the gap between them. “Wasn’t hard.”

He’s got his hands cradling Oliver’s face and Oliver’s hands at his collar and Oliver - Oliver kisses like a dying man, equally desperate, and Marcus knows now, for certain, that this will always be better than anything quidditch could ever give him. 

***

“You chose me,” Oliver says, voice a little disbelieving, “You - Marcus,  _ quidditch _ .”

Marcus laughs, and laughs, because only Oliver Wood would be worried about quidditch after settling his soulmate concerns. He presses three hard kisses to Oliver’s mouth, temple, cheek, all in quick succession. “Don’t get any ideas. I can’t get disowned.”

But Oliver’s grin is so bright, so sharp and passionate and wonderfully uncaring that Marcus knows there’s no way that he’s going to be able to cut all ties with his second love, not when his first is so entangled in it, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I did writing it, and thank you so much for reading and keeping up with my weirdly spaced out updates <3

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ mxrcusflint for more screaming over flintwood and finally finishing this fic


End file.
